


Syncopate

by thirtypercent



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: 221B Ficlet, Character Study, Fluff, M/M, Romance, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-30
Updated: 2013-08-30
Packaged: 2017-12-25 02:25:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/947500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thirtypercent/pseuds/thirtypercent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>The beat of a heart, accelerating by degrees.</em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to all of Antidiogenes for putting up with my agonizing over this little fic, particularly tiltedsyllogism. This went through many more incarnations than a 221b has any right to, and in the end I didn't really meet the prompt, but this seemed to be the way it wanted to go.

 

***

 

John has made a study of Sherlock Holmes, these last months.

In the space between the work, and skin against skin, he charts new territory day by day. A traveler in a strange land, he watches and listens and learns.

He’s learned to interpret _let me be_ or _come closer_ or _leave this flat you idiot_ in the bumps of Sherlock’s spine, the minute twitch of muscle, the syncopation of his heart.

Human braille under John’s fingertips.

Now, when he approaches a frustrated genius draped over the kitchen table in anguished boredom, when he ghosts a palm over that hunched spine:

He reads.

The sharp jut of a shoulder blade relaxing under John’s hand. The slight release of breath, fingers loosening on his mobile.

Emboldened, John draws closer, slipping his arms around that lean torso and pressing his nose to tangled curls.

Angular shoulders falling on a sigh, forehead dropping to the table with a thump, voice emerging near a growl. “I need a _case_ , John.”

John brushes his lips over the shell of Sherlock’s ear, and drifts down the line of his neck. “Soon.”

The warm weight of Sherlock’s head as he tips into John. The tattoo of his pulse under John’s lips. 

“Come to bed,” John murmurs into fragile skin. 

The beat of a heart, accelerating by degrees. 

“Yes.”

 

***

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you lovely people for reading, as always. <3
> 
> Question: would anyone be interested in seeing the alternate/original version of this ficlet? I nerd out over this kind of thing, but I have no idea if this is something anyone else would care about. :) Update: now posted as Chapter 2.


	2. Original/Alternate Version

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Original/alternate version of Syncopate, for those interested in such things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I ended up rewriting this because I wanted to push the human braille metaphor a bit more, but this version did have the benefit of actually fulfilling the prompt. :) (To finish with a word starting with B and ending with Z).

 

***

 

Head muddled from sleep, John leans against the counter and frowns over his mug of tea. “No word from Lestrade?”

Sherlock slumps over the table, chin resting on his forearms, doleful gaze fixed on his mobile. “Clearly all the criminals in this godforsaken city suffer from brain rot. Is there not one with a pair of brain cells to rub together?”

“What did I say about wishing for crime?” John’s objection is mild, outrage soft and well-worn with use.

“I didn’t wish for _more_ crime, simply greater ingenuity in the existing corpus.”

John steps closer, and ghosts a palm over Sherlock’s hunched spine. John has made a study of Sherlock Holmes these past months, and he’s learned how to read _let me be_ or _come closer_ or _leave this flat you idiot_ in the minute twitch of muscle, human braille under his fingertips.

The sharp jut of Sherlock’s shoulder blade softens. Emboldened, John leans close enough to slip his arms around Sherlock’s torso and lean into the crook of his neck, breathing deep against fragile skin. “I’ve missed you.”

Sherlock thaws in John’s arms, the thud of his heart accelerating by degrees. John brushes his lips over the shell of Sherlock’s ear. “Come back to bed.”

 _Thudthudthud_. “Yes.”

Thirty minutes later, only a cold mug of tea witnesses Sherlock’s mobile buzz.

 

***

 


End file.
